


High Octane

by Barb Cummings (Rahirah)



Series: The Barbverse [11]
Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Car Sex, F/M, Fluff, Schmoop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-02
Updated: 2012-06-02
Packaged: 2017-11-06 15:54:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/420651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rahirah/pseuds/Barb%20Cummings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spike changes a tire.</p>
            </blockquote>





	High Octane

**Author's Note:**

> This story takes place in the same universe as _A Raising In the Sun_ et al., and contains spoilers for previous works in the series.

The last sound you want to hear when you're tooling along in a '59 DeSoto at 5:00 AM with a flammable vampire is "Bang!" followed by _lub-dub-lub-dub-lub-dub-lub._

  
Buffy bit her lip as Spike pulled over to park on the shoulder - she couldn't see his expression in the rear view mirror, but he ditched his half-smoked cigarette with a curse, flung open the driver's door and dropped to one knee to examine the tire. His tousled head popped back up over the hood, a scowl twisting his dark brows. "Bollocks. Ran over a nail, looks like."

Great. Buffy leaned out the window and clutched her jacket a little closer against the cold dry wind. They'd left the last wide spot in the road which pretended to be a town behind fifteen miles ago. "But you can fix it? The spare's OK, right?"

"Better be. I don't fancy spending the day in the boot." Spike sprang to his feet and strode around to the rear of the car, flinging the trunk open. Clunking and clanking noises ensued, muffled by the wall of steel. "Spare tyre, spare petrol, emergency blood cooler, road flares, battleaxe... What we don't appear to have," he said, voice dropping to a growl, "is a bleeding jack." He wrestled the spare free, bounced it experimentally against the asphalt, and his irritation vanished in a wicked grin. "Lucky for us we don't need one." 

It took her a minute. "Wait, what? No way!" Buffy scrunched in on herself as if the DeSoto was radioactive, arms crossed protectively over slubbed silk bolero and ultra-slim pencil skirt. "This outfit is dry-clean only!"

"You're stronger'n I am." Spike sounded way too cheerful. He produced a rusty lug wrench and flipped it end over end. "Unless you'd rather change the tyre, then?"

Buffy cast a despairing glance down the deserted length of highway, utterly devoid of friendly and accommodating strangers bearing jacks. "Maybe we could wait for the highway patrol?"

Spike nodded at the dun hills to the east, where the sky was starting to lighten. "Brilliant plan, if we aim to burn to death."

"Who's this 'we,' vampire?" Buffy grumbled. Of course, if Spike burned to death, she'd have to figure out the DeSoto's weird push-button transmission and drive it home herself. Plus there was her sudden and uncomfortable conviction that the reason the jack was missing was that she'd forgotten to put it back after using it to brain that Grevloch demon last week. She consulted her cell phone, which displayed a solitary, sullenly flickering bar. So much for Triple A. Stupid technology. "All right, all right, but the dry cleaning bill is coming out of your cigarette money."

Teetering on heels which she'd specifically chosen for _not_ stumbling around in the middle of nowhere, she got out of the car and picked her way around the front end. Stepping out of her Steve Maddens and hiking up her skirt, she bent down, grabbed the DeSoto's chassis from beneath, and _heaved_. With a groan of metal, the front end of the great black car tilted and rose, just enough for Spike to get the tire off. Buffy braced herself, gasping. "Oh my God. You couldn't drive a Mini Cooper?"

"Are you daft?" You had to admit, Spike was a wizard with a lug wrench. It probably went with the whole semi-flammable thing, or possibly just a _Top Gear_ fetish. "That's not a car, it's a sodding golf-cart. Two cylinders up from a lawn mower." And if she hadn't been holding up a freaking _car_ , there might have been some yummy noises involved in watching the bulge and flex of his biceps as he spun the wrench around and tossed the lug nuts into the hubcap, one-two-three. He patted the DeSoto's sleek black flank. "I don't want to putt around the block, I want to go places, and this is the girl to take me there. Bit high maintenance, but worth every penny, and power to spare. Nothing sweeter than the roar of that engine when you rev her up." Flat off, spare on, "Little bit lower, pet..." 

Even one corner of a two-ton hunk of Detroit steel was really, really heavy, and her arms were starting to tremble, and she was all rumpled and sweaty and gross and, and...was Spike just sitting there staring at Buffy Summers the car-lifting freak? She felt a flush of embarrassment. She should have known - sooner or later the Slayer thing always made guys feel inadequate. Even guys with superpowers. "Can I put this thing down now?"

Spike reeled his tongue in and hastily put some torque on the last lug nut. "Right, set her down."

Buffy eased the car down and straightened with a grimace as Spike chucked both wheel and lug wrench back into the trunk and slammed it shut.. There was a smudge of motor oil on her jacket, she'd torn the hem of her skirt, and her frivolous, beloved shoes seemed to have gotten kicked under the car. So much for enjoying being a girl. Cool breath tickled the back of her neck, and a pair of yum-inducing arms encircled her, but shoeless Buffy was grumpy Buffy. "What?"

He nuzzled her ear, taking a deep snuffing breath of gross-sweaty-rumpled Buffy-smell in a way which was totally not hot and bothersome in the slightest. "If you don't fuck me here and now, Slayer, I bloody well will burst into flames."

"Excuse me, deadlifting is a turn-on now? Also, sunrise." 

Spike ground his hips against her ass. "That's not a spanner in my pocket." He reached around her and opened the door of the back seat, a salacious little double-dog-dare-you gleam in his eyes. "Bugger sunrise. We've got a good half-hour."

He fell back across the mile-wide expanse of the back seat, and the door swung closed behind her as she followed him down. Buffy's hands slid over the arcs of his hipbones and up the muscled length of his torso, admiring the contrast between pale ivory skin and black leather as his t-shirt rucked up beneath his armpits. She could feel him swelling against her, trapped inside his jeans, and a shudder ran through him as she undid his belt buckle, freeing his straining cock. "Wow," she whispered. "Guess deadlifting really is a turn-on."

"Try this in a Mini Cooper," Spike purred as she took him in. "Trust me, love - a bloke who can't handle all ten cylinders might as well get off the road."

 

**End**


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